


Standing On The Borderline

by grimdarkpixels



Category: Detroit: Become Human (Video Game)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Human, Alternate Universe - No Androids (Detroit: Become Human), Alternate Universe - Werewolf, Autistic Connor (Detroit: Become Human), Human Connor (Detroit: Become Human), M/M, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Werewolf Markus, cyberlife makes prosthetics instead, everyone in jericho is a werewolf and connors just like Wild Okay, twd doesnt have zombies in pop culture its basically like that, werewolves arent a part of pop culture
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-04-25
Updated: 2019-04-25
Packaged: 2020-01-31 15:52:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,437
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18594508
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimdarkpixels/pseuds/grimdarkpixels
Summary: Connor finds himself befriending a wolf. Despite its species, it's clear that it's a friendly, intelligent creature.He gets a little more than he bargains for.





	Standing On The Borderline

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [I Found the Stars, But I Lost My Mind [DISCONTINUED]](https://archiveofourown.org/works/16412975) by [grimdarkpixels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/grimdarkpixels/pseuds/grimdarkpixels). 



> oh fuck here we go again lads
> 
> hopefully it goes better this time!!! im more organized and i have more of an idea of what i'm doing so as long as i stay motivated this time everything should be gucci
> 
> fic title from "on the borderline" by thomas sanders  
> chapter title from "monster" by imagine dragons

Connor is used to being alone. He’s lived by himself for long enough that it doesn’t really bother him. Trying to stay on top of his career takes up most of the time he should be spending on connecting with people; the only people he speaks to regularly are his dad, the least rude of his coworkers and a few out-of-state acquaintances when he can be bothered to check his social media. And his neighborhood is so quiet and unassuming that he doubts he would notice if all his neighbors disappeared.

All this to say, his life outside work can be charitably described as uneventful.

Which is why he damn near chokes on his own toothbrush when he hears something scratching at his fence at almost midnight.

Once the initial shock wears off, Connor groans and gives the mirror a weary glare. The workday was stressful enough, and he was supposed to be in bed at least an hour ago. At this point, he’s ready to write off the scratching as a tree branch being carried in the wind and hitting the fence on its way, but the air outside is too still and the sound is too consistent to be accidental.

It sounds like something is trying to tear the fence down. It wouldn’t take much effort to do so; the previous owners of the house built that thing themselves, and it shows. A wooden fence that’s just been standing there for over four years with little to no upkeep? Yeah, no, that’s not going to stop whatever is outside.

Connor spits out his toothpaste and barely remembers to rinse his mouth before he pads out to the backyard to confront the intruder, grabbing his flashlight on the way. He barely has time to regret walking into the snow in his pajamas before the wooden fence splinters loudly. He fumbles with the flashlight and turns it on just in time to see the moldy wood crumble apart and a large, unidentifiable creature pop its head through the newly created gap.

Connor jumps again. The flashlight always takes too long to get bright enough to see clearly, but he can tell he’s looking at some kind of canine by the shape of its head. It promptly tries to force the rest of its body through, seemingly not realizing that it’s making the entire fence shake with every attempt. Its eyes are screwed shut with the effort, and if Connor pays attention, he knows it’s growling quietly. It doesn’t even look like it knows Connor is there.

He knows he shouldn’t be so baffled by an animal breaking into his yard, but he still drops his flashlight in surprise when it finally manages to get through. It lands in the snow with a hard _pfft_ , bringing the creature’s attention to him immediately. Its eyes go wide for a moment as it enters a defensive stance, snarling.

Slowly, trying not to startle it, Connor crouches down, resting one hand on the handle of the light and raising the other in an attempt to placate the creature. He doesn’t want to hurt an animal, but if it attacks…well, he’s used worse improvised weapons.

But it doesn’t attack. For a long moment, it doesn’t move at all, merely staring at Connor’s outstretched hand with some kind of wary, perplexed expression a canine shouldn’t be able to make. Time stands still as Connor and the animal both wait for the other to make a move.

The creature stalls for a second as it takes a step forward, and another, until it’s close enough to sniff Connor’s hand. Its face scrunches unusually, like it’s upset or confused by the information it’s taking in. Connor has no idea why. He still doesn’t move, just holds his breath and lets the animal examine his hand.

Once he picks up and shakes the flashlight awake, Connor can see the animal under decent lighting. It looks sort of like a husky, but far, far bigger. The markings are different from that of a husky; brown fur all over most of its body, white hair on its chest and the lower part of its face, but not on the entire face like a husky would have. It looks more like a wolf than anything else, but…do wolves live in the city?

The right half of its face is littered with gnarly-looking scars, a section of its ear outright missing. It could be wild, but there’s something about its eyes. The left eye is green and looks normal, if a bit too expressive, but the other one…something about it isn’t right. It sits wrong in the creature’s eye socket in a way that Connor finds off-putting. The iris is blue and meticulously detailed, but it’s the wrong size, it looks too human to be real. He can’t think of any reason a wild animal would be given a prosthetic eye.

Connor’s musings are interrupted by the creature licking his hand, then pulling back and whimpering.

“Shh, it’s okay,” Connor whispers. His body finally unfreezes (metaphorically, at least) and he moves to tentatively pet the creature. It jumps under his touch. “It’s okay… I won’t hurt you.”

The canine huffs and leans into Connor’s hand. Its body remains tense, but its eyes close in what appears to be relief. At least, Connor thinks it is. He’s better at reading human faces than animals. It whimpers again, its tail wagging slowly, and Connor rubs his other hand down the creature’s back. He’s awestruck at how soft and thick its fur is, his hand up to the wrist in it before he even feels skin.

When the animal’s eyes reopen, Connor gives it a reassuring smile, making sure not to bear his teeth.

What should he do now? Calling animal control is probably the smart thing to do, but he’s not sure he likes the idea of putting an already distressed animal into a more stressful situation. And some small, likely irrational part of him is trying to convince him that the creature in front of him isn’t normal.

The hand Connor has on its head thoughtlessly wanders over to scratch behind the creature’s damaged ear, which causes it to pull back suddenly and emit a noise somewhere between a growl and a yip.

“Sorry!” Connor gasps, yanking his hand back. “Is that wound fresh?”

He’s too tired to care he’s talking to an animal, much less question the fact that it seems to nod at him. It looks up at him with scared, pleading eyes, and Connor can feel his heart ache in sympathy. He keeps petting the creature, this time making a note to avoid the scarred area, as he decides what to do.

He doesn’t have anything readily available he could offer for comfort; he hasn’t got the time or money to own a pet, despite how much he’d like to. He can’t feel a collar around the creature’s neck, even after reaching through all the fur. Is it wild? If it was, it wouldn’t be this well behaved, right? But who the hell would have a pet wolf or a dog this massive and live in Detroit?

Should he just stop thinking and call animal control?

…He still doesn’t like that idea.

He could try feeding it; a wolf probably has a hard time finding food in the middle of Detroit. Connor thinks he has steak in the fridge, and it’s not like he’s going to bother cooking it. He really needs to stop telling himself he’ll get good at cooking.

“Are you hungry?” He’s not entirely sure why he bothers asking, but the creature’s organic eye dilates and its tail wags in interest. So it clearly recognizes the word ‘hungry’, at least.

“Okay, I’ll try to get you something. Stay here.” Connor tries to get his point across by gesturing at the ground, but he thinks it understands the command of ‘stay’ as well. This animal gets more confusing by the minute.

He rushes to the kitchen and yanks the steak out of the fridge, hoping the animal doesn’t run away or try to break down the door or something. Upon closer inspection, the steak is a day past the use-by date. Oh well; he’s seen dogs stomach far worse than day-old refrigerated steak.

By the time Connor grabs a knife for the packaging and re-enters the backyard, the canine is lying down on the grass, resting its front paws on the concrete in front of the back door with its head resting on its paws. It perks up at the sight of Connor returning and stands up when it hears him cutting open the plastic.

“Here you go,” Connor says as he crouches and holds out the open container to the canine. “Sorry if it’s not much--”

It barely takes time to sniff the food being offered to it before it snaps up the steak and scarfs it down like it’s the first thing it’s eaten in days; a possibility, Connor concedes, he can’t rule out.

“Shit!” Connor half-exclaims, half-laughs. “Watch the bone, there, buddy…”

The creature does nearly choke on the bone, but it spits it out promptly and keeps tearing the meat apart, barely taking time to chew. In what Connor estimates to be less than thirty seconds, the bone is all that’s left.

“Did you even taste that?” Connor chuckles, bringing his hand back up to pat the canine on the head gently and smiling when it licks its nose and lets out a gruff sigh.

“You sort of remind me of Dad’s dog. The big lug can move scarily fast when food is involved,” Connor continues. Sumo used to be more energetic when he was a puppy, but he’s pretty old now. It’s a shame St. Bernard’s don’t live for very long compared to other breeds. It’s a shame dogs don’t live for long in general, honestly.

…Shit, how old is this one?

Connor pushes that thought away and focuses on petting the creature, which is surprisingly therapeutic. Maybe it’s the fact that the fur beneath his fingertips is an excellent texture for stimming. Maybe it’s the fact that he hasn’t been this close to another living being for weeks. Maybe it’s the fact that dogs are just awesome. Whatever the reason, Connor feels at ease by the time he gets too tired to stay outside.

He stands up and stretches, rubbing his hands together furiously in an attempt to bring some warmth back to them. He looks down to the creature, which seems like it’s calmed down somewhat. Calling someone might be a good idea.

“Wanna come in--?”

Just as suddenly as the canine’s undamaged ear points backward, like it’s listening to something Connor can’t hear, it bolts across the yard and wiggles out through the hole in the fence. It’s gone before Connor can even raise a hand in protest.

He stares for a moment, dumbfounded, before he feels the wind blow past his skin and he remembers he’s only wearing a t-shirt and thin, baggy pants in 17° weather. He hurries back inside, puts his flashlight back where he found it and makes a beeline for his warm, comfy bed. His alarm clock blinks 24:44 at him through the darkness right before he falls face first into the mattress and passes out.

The next day, Connor almost completely forgets about the creature until his second cup of coffee. He does end up calling the number for animal control and describes what happened and what he could remember about its appearance; brown fur, fresh scars, and a false eye.

From there, life progresses as normal, though Connor has to admit he’s a little crestfallen when he doesn’t hear back about the wolf - he does enough research on wolves to be sure he's dealing with one - or see it again for the entire month.

Was it hurt? Did it die? Was someone looking after it? Did Connor imagine the whole thing? Was he just sleep deprived, or was this thing the most humanly expressive animal on the planet?

Questions along those lines float at the back of his mind for nearly two months, until one night his Netflix binge is interrupted by the sound of something scratching at the back door. The sound of the flimsy, metal door being scraped persistently pierces through his ears like nails on a chalkboard, and he can only ignore it for a few seconds before he pauses his movie and marches over to swing the door open.

As soon as he does so, he’s nearly bowled over by a large, familiar looking creature.

“ _Oof!_ You again?” he exclaims.

The wolf sighs and lets out a short almost-bark in reply, then licks its own nose and settles back down to stand on all fours. Connor bends down to pet it, unable to fight back the smile on his face.

“I was worried about you, buddy!”

It looks much happier than it had last time they met; the scars seem to be healing nicely, and its body language is much less fearful and suspicious. Connor is so glad to see the wolf safe and sound, the thought of calling animal control totally slips his mind.

He ends up spending the rest of the evening petting, feeding and talking to the wolf again. Hey, what else is he gonna do when he’s tired and lonely? Animals don’t judge him for how he talks; too many other humans have called him robotic, or monotone, or out-of-touch. It’s easier for people to think he’s just introverted rather than horrendously shy.

Perhaps that’s why he keeps letting the wolf come back. That, and he doesn’t have anything big enough to block the hole in the fence. Instead of trying to rectify that issue, Connor finds himself buying bits of meat just to feed to the wolf. Before he knows it, he’s actively looking forward to the wolf’s visits, the nights where he gets to forget everything else for a little while and spend a few hours just sitting on his back porch with the nicest living thing he’s met in months.

Connor usually turns in for the night before the dog decides to leave. It only shows up once every few weeks, and on the occasions when it stays overnight - which is often - it always leaves by the time Connor wakes up. He ends up asking around with vets and pet owners in the area, but he never gets closer to finding out whether the wolf actually lives anywhere. Even without knowing, he can tell the wolf is well-trained and friendly enough.

Almost too friendly, his brain tells him. He’s not sure whether it’s just his lonely projecting self, or whether the animal genuinely responds to his one-sided rambling. Like it understands him. The thought is equal parts hilarious and oddly comforting; hilarious since it would mean the canine he sees once a month is a better listener than some of his coworkers, comforting because…well, it’d mean it listens in the first place.

He can hope, anyway.

\---

Tonight, Connor doesn’t get home until 10. The weather gets worse and worse as he nears home, until he’s trying to navigate the darkness through thick sheets of rain without losing control of his motorcycle and falling into a ditch. He wishes he could just suck it up and get a driver’s license, but he knows from experience he’d have a meltdown just from sitting behind the wheel.

Thankfully, he gets home without a problem and sighs in relief upon parking his vehicle. He climbs off, locks his helmet to the bike and rushes inside. He peels off his jacket. While his head is mostly dry thanks to his helmet, his clothes didn’t quite have that luxury. Connor’s pretty sure the whole point of leather is that it’s waterproof, but whatever. He knows he has clean, warm clothes ready in the dryer.

He bundles up his jacket in an attempt to minimize the water it spills and shuffles into the back porch to toss it into the washing machine. He toes his shoes off and tries not to gag at the sound and feeling of his wet footwear, then throws his socks into the wash as well. He’s got more laundry to do, anyway.

A flash of bright light fills the windows for a split second. Connor counts the seconds in his head. One, two, three, four, then the telltale roar of thunder cuts through the air. While it’s quiet, it’s loud enough to make Connor want to cover his ears.

But the very loud, very close sound of a whimpering animal stops him. And he remembers the wolf. It’s about time for it to visit, but he hasn’t heard it sound that distressed since he met it.

So Connor stops stripping his wet clothes off and opens the back door. “Hello?”

He doesn’t see it at first, but the high-pitched whining is enough to guide Connor across the yard to the rusty, broken chicken coop that the previous owners built into the fence for some reason. Carefully, he lifts the lid to find the wolf lying on the floor, trembling and covered in mud. It whimpers louder when it’s no longer shielded from the rain. Its ears are flat against its head and its front paws cover its face like a frightened child.

Connor feels his heart twist from the sight alone. He crouches and slowly reaches out to the wolf. “Here, boy. It’s okay…”

The wolf moves one paw so it can look up at Connor with its organic eye. If wolves can cry, he has no doubt this one has been. It manages to stop shaking for a few seconds upon registering his presence, but then another flash of light cracks across the sky; one, two, three, followed by a crash of thunder and then the wolf hides its face again and all but shrieks.

“Not a fan of storms?” Connor guesses. Mostly to himself, although the wolf appears to consciously shake its head in reply. He strokes up and down the wolf’s back, trying to calm it.

He can’t stay outside in this weather, and he doesn’t want to leave the wolf in a rickety little would-be tetanus hazard. He’s thought about letting it into his home before, but tonight it’s probably a necessity.

First, he tries to shake the wolf and coax it to stand up. It doesn’t seem to be able to. So Connor just picks up the wolf and cradles it against his chest. God, wolves are heavier than they look, and that’s saying something. Connor’s never been happier he has to work out for his job’s sake.

Opening the back door is a little harder when both of Connor’s arms are full, but he manages it and carries the wolf into his bathroom, whispering reassurance to it on the way.

“Right,” Connor says once he sets the wolf down on the bathroom floor, wincing at the feeling of his muddy shirt clinging to his body. The wolf’s ears are still mostly flat, but they’re perking up at sounds Connor can’t hear. And it’s not whimpering so much anymore, which is a good sign. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

Connor sets about drawing a bath and tries to make it fairly warm. Tries. He’s not the best at judging temperature. He thinks it’s a symptom of hypotactility; because of course he gets hypo- _and_ hypertactility. He can’t just be unaware of pain and temperature or unable to tolerate certain textures on his skin, he gets the worst of both worlds. It doesn’t make sense, but it feels bad and nobody's happy about it.

He knows he’s thinking out loud about it the entire time the bath is filling up, but he doesn’t care. Once it’s full enough and Connor is fairly confident that the water isn’t scalding hot or freezing cold, he leans back. “Alright, you can get in?”

It’s phrased like an invitation, but said like a question. He doesn’t know if the wolf is calm enough to move on its own. And it does need a little bit of help, but it ends up in the tub without much difficulty.

“There you go.” Connor smiles and pets the wolf on the head. It seems to smile with its eyes before thunder booms in the distance again, causing it to flatten its ears again.

“Shh, it’s okay, boy. You’re okay.”

Connor runs his hands through the water and into the wolf’s fur, wiping the mud out of it. Between Connor’s attempts to comfort it and the water apparently being the right temperature (thank god), the wolf gradually relaxes and lies on the bottom of the tub. Well, as much as it can; the water is a little too high, enough to cover its nose if it wasn’t carefully keeping its mouth shut and muzzle out of the water. It’d look funny if Connor wasn’t preoccupied trying to keep it calm.

With the help of some soap and time - Connor’s phone tells him it’s about ten minutes - there’s no more mud coming away from the wolf along with Connor’s hands, and the wolf looks much less afraid than it did. He reaches into the tub to pull the plug, and the wolf hops out of the tub by itself upon realizing what he’s doing.

The wolf bows down and shakes off the excess water, catching Connor off guard and spraying his already damp and dirty clothes with more water. He makes an indignant vocalization of shock and glares without meaning to. The wolf looks sorry, even as its shoulders shake like it’s trying to stifle a laugh. Do wolves laugh? Or is Connor personifying this thing far too much?

The answer is probably both. He doesn’t know. The little irrational part of him keeps nagging that this animal acts too human, that it’s not everything it seems. Connor has been ignoring it the whole time.

His mind catches up to reality and he stands up to retrieve a towel and his hairdryer. Drying the wolf off is easier than Connor anticipates; he would’ve guessed the sheer volume of its fur would make it take forever, but the hairdryer alone gets most of the job done in a few minutes. By the time the wolf is completely dry, its fur is so much poofier than it is normally that it could easily be mistaken for a small bear. The thought makes Connor chuckle.

He dries his hands on the towel and smoothes down the wolf’s fur with both hands. “There you go. All clean and dry now. Is that better?”

The wolf sighs and licks its nose. Connor read somewhere that that translates to a release of pressure, but he can’t remember if that applied to dogs or horses. In any case, it’s a good sign. Even if it’s still trembling a little bit.

Thunder rings out distantly, and the wolf’s ears turn downward again. Connor puts a gentle hand on its head, and it leans into his touch with a quiet whine.

He can’t let it go back out there. Not right now, not when there’s still a storm outside.

While he scratches the wolf’s chin, he asks, “You want to sleep inside?”

The wolf licks its nose again and its tail wags slowly. Connor stands up. “Come on, you should eat something.”

He leaves the bathroom, and the wolf follows him into the kitchen. Connor feeds it some raw chicken, which it guzzles down quickly, then pads out to the back porch to find a blanket he can set down for the wolf to sleep on. It follows him the whole time, right until Connor enters his bedroom and puts the blanket down in the corner. The wolf hops into the makeshift bed without prompting, circles around it once and almost immediately collapses into it.

Connor gives the wolf a tired smile and one last pat. “Goodnight, boy.”

He leaves the room and checks his phone. It’s already 11:21, which is about twenty minutes later than he should be going to bed. And a good few hours _before_ he usually does. Tonight is a good night to at least _try_ being functional.

So Connor changes into some dry clothes and moves on with the rest of his nightly routine; microwave some easy dinner, check his work schedule for tomorrow, brush his teeth, go to sleep. The wolf is fast asleep by the time Connor gets into bed himself.

It always takes him a little while to fall asleep. But it doesn’t feel as bad tonight, even with the rain drumming loudly against the roof.

\---

Connor’s such a light sleeper that he has to wear an eye mask so he won’t wake up as soon as the sun rises. But he’s pretty sure anyone would wake up at the sound of someone yelling a few feet away from their bed. His first instinct is to grab the nearest thing he can throw - his phone, based on the shape and size - and hurl it blindly in the direction of the noise. He hears it connect with the wall with a _THUNK_ , but the screaming stops, replaced by ragged breathing. _Human_ breathing.

He sits bolt upright in bed, stops for a second, then tears off his eye mask. There’s a person in front of his door, hunched over. He doesn’t recognize them. He grabs the second nearest thing on his bedside table and prepares his throwing arm again.

It’s absolutely too early to handle this. Connor isn’t going to be coherent until he’s had a coffee. He looks closer at the intruder; it’s a dark-skinned man with buzzed, short hair. His nose is bleeding, and…oh.

Oh, what the fuck. Is this a dream?

The man has scars adorning the right side of his face. Familiar scars. Part of his ear is missing. There’s no obvious difference in his eyes, aside from the color; blue on the left, green on the right. The hair on his head is the same color as the fur of the wolf he took in last night.

Freshly awake as he is, his words come out slurred: “What the fuck?!”

That gets the man’s attention, his eyes snapping up to Connor’s. His thumb is pressed against his nose, trying to stop the bleeding, but he drops his hand in undisguised shock. In a breathless whisper, he says, “Oh no. _Shit!_ ”

‘Shit’ indeed. To hell with coffee, Connor needs a shot of whiskey before he can deal with this.

**Author's Note:**

> more to come (hopefully) (soon)


End file.
